


Commingled Choirs

by Anonymous



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Belly Kink, Eggpreg, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-08 03:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20302930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A pleasant interlude between a Londoner and her rubbery spouse.





	Commingled Choirs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [applecore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/gifts).

It hadn’t been difficult to arrange.

Many of the Tomb Colonies’ most august inhabitants have been everywhere and done everything, and have, through exposure, grown immune to scandal. They don’t care what a lady does in her own time, unless it involves injudicious use of open flame, and as for her circle of Bohemians, they’re just as happy to accept, with perhaps a knowing wink or sly smile, that she’s taken to zee for her health. 

She’s healthy as a tigress, of course, if considerably rounder, but she’s finding the time away unexpectedly restful. She can walk arm-in-tentacle with her rubbery spouse through the open streets here, provided there are no disgraced Londoners to carry tales back, and receive less censure from the folk of Tannah Chook than visitors do for mild discourtesy. But she ventures out less, these days, censure or no. She’s grown heavy and full, soft when she had been slender, and it’s more comfortable to lie abed in loose clothing and wait. Her love is always prompt about the day’s errands, and eager to return to her side.

Today, they’re early, gliding across the room with their silent, fluid gait to settle at her side, the appendages that serve them for legs curled beneath them. She lies back, sighing as they undo the sash of her robe and the soft satin away, exposing the taut expanse of her belly. They rest their head against it, burbling contentedly, and she traces her finger along the delicate fin that runs from their collar to the top of their head. It’s been a long time since she found the cool slickness of their skin alien, and never, in her memories, has it been unpleasant. She strokes their head, and the tentacles that encircle their beak shift and curl, gently massaging her heated stomach and the eggs it holds. Slowly, softly, they start to sing.

It starts quiet, or simply too deep for human ears, a low thrumming vibration meant to carry in water. She can feel it before she hears it, resonating through her, a pressure lighter but more constant than the tentacles rubbing circles into her skin. She wonders whether the little ones can hear it, their progenitor’s song. No doubt if they can, they hear more of its complexities than she does. But she hums along, in her high land-dweller’s voice, and the song changes, grows higher, takes on harmonies more suited to human ears and human throat. 

She stretches, breathing out, surrounded by sound and the sweet, aching heaviness of her own body. Something shifts inside her, a weight now sitting low above the cradle of her hips, and she shifts too, flushing. She hadn’t expected, at the outset, this consequence of fullness. She’s learned to appreciate it, all the same.

Her spouse pauses in their song. They know the signs, now, of human arousal – the rush of blood to the surface of the skin, the salt-scented wetness – and one of their tentacles snakes low over the swell of her belly and down between her thighs, darting and teasing. She lets her legs fall open; a groan slips past her lips as the motion rearranges the eggs inside her, and her spouse makes a sound that she’s learned to recognize as amused affection. Their tentacle probes at her entrance, then pushes in, thick, slick, leaving her fuller than before. As it moves inside her, the song resumes, a rhythmic heartbeat pulse; she sings along until her voice escapes her command, and their harmony mingles with her gasps and sighs.


End file.
